The Man in the Twilight eBook

She felt that the battle could end only one way.
The might of the Skandinavia was too great for anything
but its complete victory. She was sure, quite
sure. Oh, yes. And she knew she would not
have it otherwise. But the pity of it. This
creature of splendid manhood. To think that he
must go down—­smashed. That was the
word they used—­smashed.

How she hated the word. The big soul of him with
his ready kindliness. Oh, it was a pity.
It was a distracting thought. And why should it
be? For the life of her she could see no need.
A little yielding on his part. Just a shade less
iron stubbornness. The whole thing could have
been avoided she was sure. The olive branch had
been held out by the Skandinavia. But he had
deliberately refused it.

No. He had made himself their enemy. Then
surely there could be no complaint at the disaster
that would overtake him. He was clearly to blame.
So why let the contemplation of it distract her?

She strove a hundred times to dismiss the whole thing
from her mind. She courted sleep in every conceivable
way. But it was all useless. The man’s
fine eyes and great body haunted her. They pursued
her to her last waking thought. And, at last,
she fell asleep, thinking of the strong supporting
arms that had held her safe from the fury of Atlantic
waves.

CHAPTER XIV

THE PLANNING OF CAMPAIGN

Nathaniel Hellbeam sat ominously calm and unruffled
while Elas Peterman told of his meeting with Bull
Sternford. He gave no sign whatever. There
was just the flicker of a smile of appreciation of
Bull’s effrontery when he heard of his response
to Peterman’s invitation to sell. That
alone of the whole story seemed to afford him interest.
For the rest, it had only been the sort of thing he
expected.

He waited until the other had finished. Then
he stirred in his chair. It was an expression
of relief that his long, silent sitting had ended.

“So,” he said. “We do not buy
him. No. We smash him.”

There was obvious satisfaction that the more peaceful
process was to be set aside.

He sat blinking at his subordinate in the fashion
of a man who is thinking hard, and has no interest
in the object upon which he is gazing.

“It is as I think—­all the time,”
he said at last. “That is all right.
I make no cry out. It is easy to fight.
I would fight always with an enemy. It is good.
Now my friend, you have acted so. You bring the
man from Sachigo to tell you to go to hell. Eh?
Well you have thought much? You have planned
for the fight? How is it you make this fight?”

Elas was standing before the desk. He had, yielded
his place to this man who was master of the Skandinavia.
Now he looked down at the square-headed creature with
his gross, squat body. It was a figure and face
bristling with venom and purpose; and somehow he was
conscious of a sudden lack of his usual assurance.